


dacryphilia

by alisdas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (also mild lmao), (mild), Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Degradation, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Humiliation, Overstimulation, Smut, Spanking, litchrally just crying while fucking hcs lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29986656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: definition: dacryphilia refers to sexual pleasure or arousal from seeing tears or hearing the sounds of crying.Who's the crier, and who's the one who gets off on watching?
Relationships: Eren Yeager/Reader, Erwin Smith/Reader, Levi Ackerman/Reader, Mike Zacharias/Reader, Porco Galliard/Reader, Reiner Braun/Reader, Zeke Yeager/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 121





	dacryphilia

**Author's Note:**

> if zeke's is the longest one MIND YOUR BUSINESS im goin thru some stuff  
> also available on my tumblr @luciilferss wink wonk if u wanna drop on by ;;;;))))))))))))))

**Miche Zacharias:**

...sees you cry and  _ stares. _

Nosing along the crease of your thigh, hands gripping the meaty flesh that cushion his neck. His gaze remain sharp as ever, though a few hairs still drift across his forehead and into his eyes — he doesn’t bother brushing them away; they’ll just fall back in the next few seconds.    
Instead he chooses to watch you — mouth practically suctioned to your clit, broad shoulders shiny with sweat. He’d only managed to pull his shirt off before he spread your legs and practically  _ lunged _ between them; and still, an hour later, edged so many times you’ve lost count, pussy sticky and swollen and too-sensitive, he hasn’t even  _ inched _ towards removing his pants.

His tongue remains against your clit, rolling back and forth; but as he’s wont to do, he presses his nose against your mons and  _ inhales _ like the smell-obsessed weirdo he is. 

A familiar flush of embarrassment curls and spirals all throughout you, red-hot and dizzying. Doesn’t matter how many times he does it — whether it’s dipping down to the crook of your neck to sniff your perfume or dragging his nose between your breasts — it still leaves your stomach flipping and your cheeks heating, a whine of shame catching and snagging in your throat. 

If only you could tell him to stop — tell him that it’s  _ embarrassing _ , it’s  _ weird _ , it’s making your tummy stir and your clit throb and your pussy clench — but you  _ can’t _ . Your mind is empty, blissfully, joyfully empty of all worries and problems except the one between your legs. He knows that; it’s why he looks so happy with himself, content to lick and suck and sniff away for as long as he pleases.

“Mi—Miche,” you choke out, sniffling. “C’mon, already.”

He only smiles — smiles in a way that promises many,  _ many _ more hours of this painstaking teasing, eating you out for  _ his  _ pleasure and  _ his  _ desire before you even get the slightest  _ taste  _ of an orgasm.

If only you could tell him to stop. As it stands, the only thing you can do is pout and blubber and try to keep your bottom lip from trembling, fists balled tightly at your sides. 

**Erwin Smith:**

....sees you cry and  _ dotes _ . 

He pretends to be so gentle with it, and in some ways he is; there’s no insincerity in the way he rubs a thumb over your cheek, smearing your tears away; no insincerity in the softness of his eyes or the gentle chuckle that’s muffled against your neck. No insincerity in how his voice, baritone and smooth as it is, travels through the air to your ears: “You look prettiest when you cry, darling.”

But his hips are another story: unrelenting and painfully accurate, rolling and grinding in this fucking  _ dizzying _ movement, head of his cock squished up and against that soft, spongey spot inside of you that makes you gush. His  _ fingers _ are the same — your sensitive clit pinched between the pointer finger and thumb of his right hand, swollen and red and subject to most of his teasing.

If you could call what he does  _ teasing _ , because really, it isn’t. There’s always a period at the start of your love-making where he tries to be gentle, tries to handle you with all the care he says you’re deserving of; soft touches and softer kisses, gossamer-like trails of his fingers, mumbled declarations of love against your skin… but it’s all abandoned sooner or later. 

Idly, mind cloudy and pleasurably hazy, you remember something he once said — in a fit of passion, no less, though not quite as loving and intimate as  _ this _ passion. Something about devils and necessary evils and good people doing bad things — you can’t remember, not here, not with his cock 8 inches deep in you and your breath shortening and  _ so close, so, so close— _

The point he was making, evidently, was that he was a devil as much as any other man in his position. It’s both easy and difficult to believe, having him hunched over you like this for hours on end, an acolyte to your alter — if pussy constitutes as an alter, that is; if his heart and soul (damaged as he claims they are) constitute as offerings. 

“One more,” he promises, hot and heavy in your ear, a promise he’s made twice —  _ thrice? _ — in the past few hours already. You’d call him insatiable if you weren’t genuinely shedding tears in your venture for more. “Give me one more. That’s all I want.”

(It’s another promise he breaks — it’s  _ not _ , in fact, _ all he wants _ . He makes you cream all over him once more before he cums inside you; even then, afterwards, he slots his mouth over your pussy and makes you cum in his mouth before he’s truly satiated, truly satisfied. Though in truth you’re not sure he knows the meaning of the word.)

Devil he may be, Erwin’s favourite medium is orgasms, and his favourite subject is you.

**Levi Ackerman:**

...sees you cry and  _ scoffs _ .

“Oi. Stop with the crocodile tears.” His hand taps the side of your cheek — it stings for a moment, makes your eyes even more watery and your throat tighten and your pussy clench around him. The sound he makes sounds like it’s been punched out of him, and if you were any other person you’d think he hates you with the way he glares down at you — grey eyes narrowed and lip curling for a moment. “Of course you’d like that.”

He’s one to talk. He doesn’t have you like this for the good of his health —  _ this _ , meaning: wide and teary-eyed, stuffed full of cock, the thumb of one hand unrelentingly pressing down on your clit and the fingers of his other pinching your nipples  _ hard _ . Occasionally removing his hand from your tits to gently slap your face under the guise of  _ making you focus _ .

Oh, no — Levi Ackerman, of all his notoriety and renown, gets off on seeing your cheeks shiny with tears, your eyes red with it, your lips pouted and shaking. Gets off on having your pretty pussy grip him like a vice, gummy walls pulsing and pulsating ‘round him ‘til you leave a nice, white ring of cream on his cock with each thrust; gets off on the sniffles and the cries and the whimpers of his name — ‘cause it sounds nice, doesn’t it?

_ “Levi, Levi, Levi—!” _ Hands scrabbling at his chest and your eyelashes wet and dewy, clinging together. 

( _ Yeah _ , Levi thinks, trying to catch his breath.  _ That’s it. That’s what he likes to hear _ .)

"Just a little more," he grunts —  _ glad _ for a moment that your eyes are closed, because the flush spreading across his cheeks and the open gape of his mouth isn't for you to see. 

It's embarrassing, in some capacity, to admit that anybody could have such a profound effect on him. It's easier to communicate through touch, whether it's a ruffle of your hair or his head between your legs — not quite so easy when it comes to speaking it.

He won’t admit it, then. Never. He’ll rut into you until your eyes are brimming with tears, overstimulate you until you’re crying,  _ begging _ for something you're not even sure you can handle. He'll let his stomach twist pleasantly when you sniffle and mumble his name, eyes glassy; he'll cum with his hips flush against yours and your name on his tongue, sugary sweet—

And all the while, he'll pretend — for your sake more than his — that he isn't as terribly, horribly,  _ irrefutably _ far-gone as you are.

**Eren Yeager:**

...sees you cry and  _ coos. _

He's painfully condescending — eyes glinting mirthfully with every twist of your hips, every strangled noise that catches in your chest. He does this for himself as much as he does for you; thinks it’s funny, in some way, to see you wincing from pleasure, throat ragged from gasping and crying out, eyes squinting with every rough, friction-filled grind of the bed sheets against your clit.

"Don't run from it," he murmurs, grinning this shit-eating grin that almost makes you roll your eyes.  _ Almost _ , you stress, because you’re pretty sure you lost motor control about 10 minutes ago — around the time he stopped playing around and began to roll his hips in that way he knows he’s able to. His hands are plastered to your ass, stopping you from wriggling and bucking away like you instinctively had been. "Hey, hey, hey — c'mon, there you go. 's so easy to listen, isn't it?" 

Eren gets like this sometimes, mostly when he feels he has something to prove. A few years ago he would’ve taken to finding the nearest willing participant to fight and going to town, achieving nothing but bruised knuckles and broken skin and a black eye. Now — after  _ many _ scoldings and  _ many _ berations, he’s begun to put his energy into something much more constructive.

Though, you don’t think there’s much constructiveness involved in the way he breaks you down, hair by hair, cell by cell — not satisfied, not done, not  _ good enough _ until he’s got you with your head down in your pillows and your face all weepy and messy, sniffling and blubbering and not sure what way is up and what way is down. 

When the first few tears begin, when the pouting begins, he knows you begin to shy away from him — ‘s why he prefers to have you like this, laying on your tummy so he can straddle your legs and grasp your rounded hips and pull you back on to him as much as he wants. You have your safe word — you have your limits and you  _ know _ them — and yet no matter how much you cry, you never find it in yourself to say it.

He knows why. Don’t get it twisted, he’s a crier, too. 

Not in the way you are; sobbing from too much and not enough, painful twinges of pleasure between your legs — his tears are cathartic. When his shoulders are bowing from the weight of the world and his head’s cloudy with this and that and responsibility and legacy and lives,  _ so many lives _ , so much loss and pain and it’s all on  _ him _ . His head finds itself resting on your chest, or on your shoulder, or against your neck, tears blotting against your skin, and you take it without complaint. 

You thread your fingers through his hair and set your lips against his cheek and  _ hold _ him, tell him it’s okay, tell him you’re not going anywhere, tell him you  _ love him, love him, love him. _

He’ll listen.

**Reiner Braun:**

...sees you cry and  _ marvels _ .

Mouth agape like he can’t believe any of it: the whining whimpers; the gasps of his name; your wet, clumpy lashes and your watery eyes staring up at him like he’d singlehandedly hung the stars in the sky. You’re beautiful. You — you are  _ more _ than beautiful, but Reiner’s never been much good at poetry, and he still gets tongue-tied around you, even more so when his hand is squished between your legs — he trades his sonnets and sonatas for lurching forward and kissing you, all sloppy and messy and more teeth than anything else.

It’s not the first time he’s had you like this, and it certainly won’t be the last, but it must be telling of  _ something _ that each time feels like the first. It’s the way you tremble when he pulls your panties aside — the way your breath comes all shaky and trembling when he first brushes his fingers through your sticky lips. The way, after denying you your orgasm, or after giving you too many, you begin to sniffle and blubber and  _ whine _ — his name, mostly. Sometimes it’s incoherent mumblings, but mostly it’s his name.

(It’s something he takes great pride in.)

“Honey,” he says — murmurs —, pushing his fingers in, out. You’re so  _ wet _ , so  _ warm _ , dripping down onto the palm of his hand and forcing a blush to his cheeks. He can feel every inch of your pussy, it feels like; the squishy, silken walls of you; thick thighs soft and squidgy, clamped around his wrist; that one, spongey little spot that he reaches when he quirks the tips of his fingers just right — the spot that makes you keen, and thrash, and gush like the precious little princess you are. “Are you—?”

“Close,” you gasp out, “C—close, so close, n—nearly—”

And when you cum — well, that’s his favourite part. You almost always try to cover your face, too overwhelmed by it all to face him; and in turn, he almost always wrangles your wrists in one hand so he can watch you, watch your face contort and those beautiful fucking tears finally start spilling down your cheeks.

You do the same for him — because he’s quick to lose his cool, too. He doesn’t mean to, but when you’re above him — doing that thing with your hips (that back and forth motion, you know what he’s talking about) and watching him with that look in your eyes—

It’s  _ always _ that fucking look that gets him. He doesn’t know how to explain it — all he knows is how it makes him feel. Like he’s worth something. Like he  _ is _ something.

Before he knows what’s happening, his eyes are stinging. His throat is tight. His bottom lip is trembling. Fingers gripping your hips press indents into your skin, and he tries to tilt his head away, tries to distract you from the sudden wetness beading under his eyes and percolating down his face — but you see it, you see him, and your fingers catch on the sides of his jaw and tug him back to look at you.

“Reiner,” you pant, “Stop  _ hiding _ , baby.”

He is nothing if not your obedient attendant — and so he lets you ride him, lets himself lose all critical thought in the pulsating walls of your cunt, in the bouncing of your breasts, in the whispers of  _ love you, Reiner _ , in the heat and fullness of your hips and your ass in his hands, in — in—

In you.

**Zeke Yeager:**

...sees you cry and  _ laughs _ .

He’s mean. You know this,  _ he _ knows this — neither of you are fooling anybody by saying otherwise. He'll pinch your cheeks a tad too hard and slap your ass until it's numb; he'll tug on your hair in passing just to make you snarl, hold things above you and out of your reach, just to coerce you into calling him—

"'Daddy'," Zeke repeats clearly, enunciating each syllable. He lifts his hand from your ass, and you brace yourself — silence hangs heavy and anticipatory between you, before—

_ Smack! _ The palm of his hand makes contact with the skin of your ass once more, the man humming appreciatively as the flesh jiggles from the impact. 

"C'mon, sweetness. It’s not  _ that  _ hard.” He always has this low, droning way about his voice; something that makes him sound completely and utterly  _ bored _ , like he’s not getting off from being cock-deep in your guts, like he didn’t just  _ groan _ from having you suckling on his fingers just moments before. “Two syllables. Surely you’re not fucked stupid yet?”

“‘M  _ not _ !” You cry out, voice warbling with the knot in your throat. “‘M not, so — so stop sayin’ I am!”

Your bottom lip trembles and shakes, eyes big and glassy and Zeke can’t even  _ see  _ you, not from where he’s sat straddling your thighs, 9-and-a-bit inches deep in your cunt. God, he wishes he could — there’s nothing better than seeing you like this. The way your lips purse — a brainless attempt to stop yourself from crying, really — and the way you stare at him, disbelieving and frowny, like you can’t even  _ fathom _ the thought of him even  _ trying _ to put your bratty ass in your place.

“C’mon now,” he chuckles. “No point in denying it.”

It’s not that Zeke doesn’t like when you cry, or that he’ll punish you, or  _ anything _ of that same strain — quite the opposite. He loves it. He  _ encourages  _ it. He wants you to put your wellbeing in his hands, let him take you apart until you’re writhing and crying and warbling, and then he wants to be the one to put you back together. Something about the vulnerability of it all; the simple fact that you trust him enough to let him do this to you.

Still. If he doesn’t act even a  _ little _ angry, you’ll just act out more often. So he’s gotta put on airs, at least when you’re being  _ extra  _ impudent. A spank here and there, a snide comment or two. 

“Hey, now,” Zeke says — his voice lighthearted and blithe, but make no mistake: the control is his, it always has been. He shifts his hips, and it’s just the  _ slightest _ , slightest bit, but it has the blunt, silky head of his cock nestling further up against the spongiest, most  _ sensitive _ part of you. You squeal like the little sweetheart, fingers clenching the sheets so tightly it  _ hurts _ , and he swears your pussy squeezes him like it  _ loves _ him. “I think I asked you to do something.”

A sniffle answers him.

(Now, let it be known that Zeke  _ knows _ your limits. So do you. It’s the reason you have safewords, the reason you use the stoplight system, the reason why, now, Zeke shifts forward, the starched, pressed fabric of his button-up drifting across your naked back when he leans closer to take a look at your face. 

_ No cloudiness, _ he muses, taking in your expression. Your brows are furrowed and your eyes narrowed, annoyance and insolence  _ clearly _ taking centre stage.  _ No genuine sadness. Just a pretty, sulky pout on a pretty, sulky face. _

Nothing to worry about, then. Still — and don’t get telling people this — he can’t help himself. He leans closer, close enough that you can feel his beard all scratchy against your skin, and gently nuzzles his nose against your jaw. He even gives your cheek a quick, sloppy peck — something so uncharacteristically soft that it makes you tighten around him, fussing quietly to yourself.)

“Don’t tell me you’re crying  _ again _ ,” Zeke says, barking out a laugh. “Pathetic. All because I asked you to say one single word?”

You snivel again, and Zeke — against his will — finds himself smiling despite himself.

**Porco Galliard:**

...is the one to cry. 

He’s got a reputation as the instigator, the snarky one, the one who’ll fold his arms and huff and puff and roll his eyes just because he can. The starter of fights, the  _ ender _ of fights, the frowner, the one you go to when you want to hear something pessimistically realistic. He doesn’t want to say it’s all a front because it’s  _ not _ — but he’s much more emotional than he lets on. Much softer. He feels everything deeply,  _ too deeply _ , and it comes off as volatility and anger and annoyance — but here, in your bed, in  _ his _ bed, it’s all—

“Oh, baby,” you coo — and you stop bouncing in his lap to pout, cupping his sharp jaw with a soft hand. His eyes are red-rimmed and his nose and cheeks are rosy, too, lips trembling in their effort to keep his cries restricted to his throat. He thinks his hands have been plastered to your hips for hours, but time has begun to slip and slide and contort in ways it  _ really _ shouldn’t. “You’re crying, my pretty boy.”

You’re the only one he’ll let tease him like this — when he’s vulnerable, he means. When he’s painstakingly peeled back every protective layer he’s built up and lies bare, bare for you to love on and feel and  _ use _ — because he’ll let you use him, good God, he’ll let you use him if it means you’ll take his cock in hand and take it all inside you and gasp like you do. He’ll let you use him if you’ll kiss him all sweetly and call him your pretty boy and ride him like your life depends on it.

“Can’t — can’t help it,” he says — sniffles a little, but tries to blink away the stinging in his eyes and the knot in his throat. At this point, Porco’s not too sure whether the tears are from the feeling of you squeezing his cock or the sudden realization that he really,  _ really _ loves you. “‘S so good.”

Your lips curl in a smile too devilish for your face — but that’s you. That’s  _ all _ you. No matter whether you’re on top of him, rolling your hips and clutching his hands to your tits, or beneath him, whimpering his name and begging, you’ve long perfected the perfect little angelic front. The wide eyes and glossy, bitten lips, the soft moans of his name — all easily shed aside and traded for smug smirks and strategically-placed hickies. A hand at his neck and a (metaphorical) hand on his heart.

The stinging in his eyes returns with renewed vigor, and your hips speed up. The warmth in his stomach builds; grows and grows and grows until his toes are curling and his heart is in his throat and he doesn’t just  _ think _ it now; no, he knows it. He loves you, he loves you, he  _ fucking _ loves you, he’ll do anything for you if you’d just — just—

“If you wanna cum,” you pant, grinning, and he knows he looks like a fool — knows he’s staring at you with his mouth agape and his eyes wide, “you know what you have to do, darling.”

How could he forget? It’s his favourite part. He takes two fingers, lifts them to his mouth; coats them in sticky, viscous spit before he even tries putting them near you. And then he reaches between you both and rolls them right over your little clit, right over his favourite little bud — and the effect is instantaneous. Your pussy seizes up around him and your voice shakes, thin and reedy and  _ desperate _ , as desperate as his own groans have gotten; your hand on his chest trembles and your eyes go all half-lidded.

“You’re so —  _ God,  _ Porco — you’re so  _ cute _ !” You almost sound like you could cry yourself. You keep brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, smearing the tears that drip from his eyes across his skin, your mouth open in a little  _ o _ . Like seeing him all bleary-eyed and blubbering is the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen, and—  _ holy shit _ , maybe it is. 

Because you’re tightening around him, breath stuttering in your throat, sounds getting progressively whinier and whinier until —  _ God, there it is _ . It’s a revelation, that’s what it is. Gummy walls tightening and relaxing, pulsing around and massaging his cock like it’s all it was ever meant to do — Porco’s hips lift and before he knows it he’s cumming, too. Crying, as well. Openly. Cries of your name and nonsensical rambles — he doesn’t have a notion of what he’s saying, only that he’s filling you up, and you’re so warm, so  _ warm  _ and  _ wet _ and his mind is all cloudy and nothing else matters except here and now.

You collapse against his chest, breathing heavily, and Porco thinks —  _ knows _ — that, just like every time you’ve fallen into bed together, he’ll never be the same. What was it he’d said earlier? 

Ah, yes: a hand at his neck and a hand on his heart.

  
  



End file.
